On Angel's Wings 3
by Mummyluvr
Summary: Sequel to On Angel's Wings 2. Dean's still got his wings, and all the powers that go along with them. But immortality comes with a price...
1. Chapter 1

Another day... another story. That's right, it's time for the third installment of the (almost) popular series!

**Title:** On Angel's Wings 3

**Summary:** So, Dean got to keep his wings, and with them all of the powers of an angel. Unfortunately, he discovers, immortality comes with a price...

**Warnings:** None. Actually, there's less bloodshed than in the previous stories :)

**Disclaimer:** As always, nothing is mine. It belongs to that evil, cliffie-loving genius, Eric Kripke.

* * *

**On Angel's Wings 3**

The snowfall was relentless, blanketing the side of the mountain in a pristine white layer of powder that anyone but Sam Winchester would have found beautiful. Sammy probably would have noticed the majesty of the landscape, would have breathed a sigh of awe and muttered something schmaltzy about the wonders of nature, had his mind not been elsewhere. Instead of focusing on the scenery that lay just beyond the door to the small cabin he'd rented, the young psychic's thoughts were on his older brother.

Dean had ventured out into the Colorado blizzard almost three hours before, heading up the side of the mountain while wind and snow beat strong against his body. "You heard Ellen," he had argued as Sam had tried to follow him out the door, "no human could make it up there and back alive. Just leave this to the supernatural freak, all right?"

Sam had let himself be pushed back into the cabin. His brother had a point, no one could possibly make it up to the demon's mountain hide-away and back, especially in this blizzard. Still, he hated making Dean go up there alone, and was starting to hate Ellen for opening her big mouth.

The Winchester brothers had turned up at Harvelle's Roadhouse over a month ago looking for the location of the antique Colt revolver possessed of the ability to kill anything. Dean had gotten their first, beating the traffic and dodging a few airplanes along the way, and had really gotten into the search, helping Ash in any way possible.

It had taken three weeks for the computer wiz to finally track down a possible hiding place for the gun, in a long-forgotten cave on an unforgiving mountain near an old ghost town that a surprisingly large number of demons seemed to have been frequenting. The mountain was in Colorado, and, of course, whatever cosmic force liked messing with the Winchester family had sent a blizzard their way just as Sam had pulled into town.

So, here he was, pacing by the door of the cabin he'd rented, just waiting for his brother's safe return. "You boys aren't considering going up there, are you?" he said aloud in a mockingly feminine voice, still annoyed with the owner of the Roadhouse for suggesting, even unintentionally, that Dean go it alone this time, "because there's a reason the demon picked that mountain. No human could make it up there and back alive."

No human was trying. Dean was something more, but that didn't mean he should have to trudge- sorry, _fly_- up to that cave alone. What if it was a trap? What if there was something lying in wait for him? What if he never came back? What if-?

Sam was ripped from his thoughts as one of the cabinets in the near-by kitchen fell from the wall, every glass within shattering upon impact as the wood splintered and covered the floor. The young hunter sighed, throwing one last glace out the small window beside the door and scanning the sky for any sign of his brother. When he didn't see anything, he trudged into the kitchen and grabbed a broom.

The demon was gone, and whatever had messed with Sam's head after his initiation into the creature's cult of psychics had vanished, too, but a small inkling of the enhanced abilities he'd 'enjoyed' for a whole month were still there, coming out at the most inconvenient times.

Like when he was angry, and things flew across the room. Or when he got nervous. One time he'd been worried about Dean because the elder had been uncharacteristically quiet immediately following the events in the gorge, and had somehow picked up on the thoughts of everyone within a mile radius. That wouldn't have been bad, had they not been stopping in New York City for a quick hunt. Sam had been out cold for three days, and when he'd come to his mind had been reeling.

But these things hardly ever happened anymore. In fact, the disturbances, if you could call them that, had gotten smaller and weaker every day, like whatever was still going on with Sam's brain was finally starting to fade away and things were getting back to normal.

Well, as normal as they could be when you spent your life hunting evil and your brother had recently joined the ranks of the heavenly supernatural.

Yeah… normal.

He finished sweeping up the glass and wood just as the front door burst open and whirling snowflakes were blasted into the cabin. Sam dropped the broom and ran to the door just as his brother stumbled in, struggling to stave off the wind and snow that was swirling into their temporary home.

"Man," Sammy muttered, wrapping his arms around himself as Dean finally got the door closed, "what took you so long?"

Dean turned, a ridiculous grin plastered on his lips that widened as he saw the look on Sam's face. "I think I froze to death, like, five times."

Sam just stared at his brother in shock and took a shaky step backwards. Ice seemed to coat every inch of Dean's body except his wings in a thick layer, his skin was ghost-white and his lips had turned blue and chapped to the point that it looked like they'd split in several places.

Dean hadn't seemed to notice the condition his body was in, though, and crossed the room to the fireplace, where Sammy had kept a fire going in anticipation of his brother's return. The angel sat down in front of the flames and extended his hands toward the warmth they radiated. He paused for a brief moment and seemed thoroughly surprised at the color of his hands, but shrugged it off quickly and went back to trying to warm up.

"You all right?" Sam asked slowly, sitting in one of the small chairs that had been placed near the hearth.

"Not even cold," Dean reported, "I mean, I was at first, but not anymore. Weird, huh?"

The younger man sighed. "Yeah, weird. So, did you get the gun?"

Dean nodded, rubbing his hands vigorously over his arms in a futile attempt to melt some of the snow and ice that had collected there.

"Where is it?"

The angel reached around and pulled the antique revolver out of the waistband of his pants. He slid it across the floor to his brother's feet before standing up and heading for the kitchen.

Sam took the gun and inspected it. Definitely the Colt. "So," he began as the sound of Dean rifling through cabinets for something to eat echoed through the small cabin, "you gonna tell me why you were so gung-ho going after this thing?"

"Just don't want anything else to get it, Sammy," Dean answered. There was no reason to tell the truth, the older man figured. No reason to worry the kid. Because immortality came with a price, one that Dean hadn't even considered until it had been too late, until they'd left that nameless little Colorado town with the gorge far behind them. They'd been in New York, still waiting for Ash to get back to them with the location of the gun when it had hit him.

"Hey, Sam," he called out, noticing a blank space on the wall and a few slivers of wood and broken glass shoved into a corner, "where'd the cabinet go?"

**55 Years Later**

He adjusted his position, moved his hands so that they were directly over the old man's heart, and tried again. His hands radiated warmth and light and love, but what if it wasn't enough this time? The geezer's heart had crapped out on him, and Dean wasn't sure if he could make it start up again. Not this time. Maybe this time was it.

But he had to try. He couldn't let it end like this. Not here in the little bungalow the old man had bought all those years ago. He'd needed to settle down, he said, wanted to take it easy for a while. That had been about a year before arthritis had started to take him.

Arthritis, asthma, bronchitis, some minor heart problems, a broken hip, not to mention all of the old injuries from his younger days that flared up when the weather turned rotten. And the Alzheimer's. Man, that one had been scary. But Dean had been able to fix him all of those other times, had been able to save him from every problem, both major and minor.

Maybe now he'd met his match. Maybe it was finally the old coot's time to go. Maybe Dean would have to let go, to slide off the rapidly-cooling body, and give up. He would take the Colt, hold it up to his own head, and pull the trigger. The gun could kill anything, good or evil. At least, he _hoped_ it could kill good.

He was just about to give up, too, to take his hands from the dead man's chest and go fish the gun out of the box where he kept it, when Sam's eyes snapped open.

Dean smiled wide as he slid off his brother's chest, giving Sam a chance to catch his breath, which was currently coming in short gasps. "Thought I'd lost you there, Gramps," he said quietly, letting his head hang as his heartbeat resumed its normal rate.

"Dean," Sam panted, rolling over onto his stomach and pushing stray strands of gray hair out of his eyes, "you gotta stop this, man. You can't keep doing that."

"Doing what?" Dean asked as he helped his brother up.

"Saving me," the old man sighed as his brother helped him to a chair, "you can't keep it up forever. You can't just stay here and hover and make sure I don't die. You're gonna have to let me go sooner or later, man."

"Hey, don't talk like that," the angel said, averting his eyes as he caught their reflection in a near-by mirror. He felt guilty, getting to stay 27 forever while his little brother, his _responsibility_, wasted away into old age. It just didn't seem fair.

"Give it up," Sam pleaded, easing himself into the chair, "I'm tired, Dean. I can't do this anymore."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam closed his eyes and leaned back. "You know."

"Hey. I am not just gonna stand back and let you die if there's something I can do to help. You can't ask me to just step back-"

"Then leave. You won't have to watch."

"You don't mean that. You're not gonna send me off on my own. You still want to make sure I'm safe. Man, it's coming off you in _waves_, Sammy. I can feel it. So stop bitching and just let me help you."

"I don't want your help, Dean. I want to die. I want to see mom and dad and Jess. You should know that by now. It should be coming off me in _waves_."

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "You're pretty stubborn, you know that?"

"You used to think that was an endearing quality, if I remember right."

The angel smirked, shaking his head. "Times change. I'm not letting you give up that easy, Sammy."

"It isn't giving up," Sam argued, "it's letting nature take its course."

"Well, if nature intended you to die in this little hut of yours, it wouldn't have put me here with you. As long as I'm here, nobody's dying. Including _you_."

The old man sighed, rubbing an aged hand slowly over his face, letting it hover long enough to mentally count the number of lines time had etched there. "Give up, Dean," he muttered, rising slowly to his feet and shuffling out of the bedroom, "it's over."

Dean watched his brother leave, heart sinking a little more with each labored step Sam took, before following him. He didn't head into the kitchen for lunch, though, which was what he supposed the old man was doing. He headed out the back door. There was business to attend to elsewhere, and that little voice in the back of his head wouldn't shut up until he'd dealt with it.

* * *

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'll only update if you review :) 


	2. Chapter 2

Time for another chapter. Thanks for all the reviews (a surprising number for me, actually). I'll try to keep updating regularly, even though Finals are looming!

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"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Dean cautioned as he landed silently behind the young man with spiked blue hair.

The boy turned, a bit startled, and almost lost his footing on the railing of the bridge. "Who are you?" he asked.

Dean grinned, still a little surprised that he could understand the kid. He was, after all, in the middle of France. "I'm your guardian angel," he said in perfect French, spreading his wings out behind him, smile widening as the kid's jaw dropped.

"You-?"

"Oh, yeah. And let me tell you, you _really _don't wanna do that. See, if they don't find your body, it'll get all bloated and disgusting. Aw, who am I kidding? That'll happen whether they find you or not. You really want your folks to remember you like that, all bloated and wet and probably full of fish eggs?"

The boy let out a short laugh before turning back to the rushing river beneath him. "I don't think they'd care. They don't like me much."

"That's not true," Dean argued, stepping up to the railing, "I know it for a fact."

"How?"

"I was there once. Would you believe my dad pinned me to a wall and tried to rip my guts apart once? Or that my brother followed me into a gorge and crushed my leg with a boulder before moving in for the kill?"

The kid cringed. "You sure you're an angel? Because your family sounds kind of demonic."

"Well, yeah, I guess they do. Let's just say things got better, OK? Sometimes life looks bad, but you've gotta take it as it comes. My brother and I share a little house in Michigan now, out in the country. He hasn't tried to kill me in 55 years."

The boy's eyes went wide and his jaw dropped again. "55 years? How old are you?"

"About 83, believe it or not."

To Dean's surprise, the kid jumped off the railing and back onto the bridge. "You don't look it."

"What can I say," the angel shrugged, draping an arm around the young man he'd just saved, "I was cursed with beauty."

o0o0o0o

He opened the door to the bungalow only about an hour after he'd left and walked in. "Honey," Dean called out, "I'm home! Had an errand to run in France, if you'll believe it. Some little punk kid tried to jump into a river. I saved him, and my French's gotten better."

He walked toward his brother's room, expecting to find Sam sprawled out on the bed with a book or the laptop open in front of him. "Hey, remember that haunted house in Canada," he said, "and we were talking to that chick at the restaurant, and we walked away and you told me I'd been speaking-"

Sam wasn't in his bed. He wasn't anywhere in the room. In fact, there was no indication that he'd been back in his bedroom since that morning's heart attack. "Sammy?"

He took off through the house, nearly running into a couple of doors as he searched every nook and cranny and closet. There was no sign that Sam had been anywhere in the house recently, but his things were still there, so he couldn't have left.

Finally, Dean decided to check the kitchen, because after the discussion they'd had that morning, he could totally see Sam sitting at the table, eating a sandwich, while his brother frantically searched the house. Oh yeah, Geek Boy was probably laughing it up.

Dean stepped into the kitchen and knew by the amount of blood on the floor that it wasn't a joke. The note taped to the table just confirmed that. It was dated, and timed, and revealed that Sam had written it less than five minutes before. So maybe there was still time.

Slipping in fresh blood, the angel knelt down by his brother's body, pushing the hunting knife away without a second glance. He placed one hand on each of Sam's wrists, right over the long slashes.

_"Dean, _

_Don't even think about it. This is what I want. It's been fun,_

_-Sam"_

A line. That was all he'd written. Well, Dean had never been one to heed his elders, and he wasn't about to start now, not with Sammy's life in the balance. No, he couldn't back down now.

On the floor, surrounded by blood, Sam began to stir, began to breath again, and then began to shout. Dean couldn't even catch half of it before his brother was up and storming into his room.

The angel sat in the kitchen, his brother's blood soaking through his clothes, as the other room erupted into a cacophony of bangs and shatters, followed by defeated sobs.

Slowly, Dean got to his feet to find the mop and try to clean up a little. Sam would come around. He was sure of it.

o0o0o0o

Dinner, for the first time in a long time, was eerily quiet. Normally it was all 'how was your day?' and 'is this pizza delivery?'. There wasn't anything to talk about now, though. The pizza was delivery, and the day had been rough, and both brothers knew it.

Dean wasn't about to let the meal go by in agonizing silence, though. "So," he began slowly, staring down at his greasy piece of pizza, "saved a life today."

"Twice," Sam nodded, his voice bitter.

"Not _you_, princess. Some spiky-haired kid in France. I tried to tell you before, but you were passed out on the floor."

"I was dead, Dean."

"So, this kid was trying to-"

"Don't change the subject. I was dead, and you should have let me stay dead. At least, that was your opinion 55 years ago. What's dead should stay dead."

"That was different," Dean pointed out, "that was me."

"And now you can't die, and I realize that, but it was your own stupid mistake that made you like this, man, and-"

"You think I don't know that? You think I'm flying around the freakin' globe stopping people jumping off freakin' bridges and blaming someone else? I'm not stupid, Sam. I know whose fault it is."

"Then why don't you let me go?"

"You think I haven't tried that? Man, you try just standing by and watching your only brother die when you know full well you can save him. It ain't as easy as it sounds."

Sam sighed, glancing down at his plate before turning his failing eyes back up to his brother. "Look, I'm sorry, all right. I guess I didn't think-"

"Whatever," Dean muttered, standing up and heading for the door.

"Hey," Sam protested, "you can't just leave in the middle of the fight. You've gotta finish it."

"This isn't about the fight, Sammy. This is about the girl who's about to hang herself in her home on Oak Street."

"You should probably go, then."

"Duty calls." The angel shrugged and turned back to the door. "Oh, and Sam? Stay away from the knives, will ya? Just until I get back."

o0o0o0o

"_Stay away from the knives, will ya_," Sam mocked as he scrubbed stubborn pieces of cheese from the plates before setting them into the dishwasher, "honestly. How old does he think I am?"

That was when he noticed it. It was sitting right out in the open, out where he could easily spot it. He had to do a double take to make sure he was seeing it right, but it was there. He blinked a couple of times, but the offending item stayed stubbornly where it was.

Rolling his eyes, Sam took the padlock in his hands and silently cursed his brother. Apparently, while the younger, yet older-looking, man had been throwing a tantrum in his bedroom, the angel had decided to avoid a repeat of the day's attempted suicide and locked up the silverware drawer.

Curious, the aging hunter headed down the hallway that led to their little closet armory. The door was locked and chained and boarded over. "I can't believe him," Sam muttered, heading into his own bedroom to find that, somehow, Dean had been _there_, too. Everything the old man had kept hidden around the room was gone, probably locked up in the closet.

On a whim, Sammy decided to check out his brother's room. Chances that Dean would strip his own private sanctuary of all weaponry were slim to none, and though Sam wasn't about to try and take his own life again (at least not that night, anyway), it couldn't hurt to check.

The door creaked open slowly as the hunter entered and looked around. About a foot of dirty clothes was piled on the floor, blocking any view of the light blue carpet. Mismatched sheets lay crumpled around the bed, which apparently hadn't been made in the past decade or so. Odds and ends cluttered every visible surface of the room. They were obviously things that had piled up over the years because Dean really had a problem letting go of anything.

Sam made his way carefully to the bed and stuck his hand under the pillow, expecting to find the hunting knife his brother was known to hide there. Nothing. He checked the mattress, the closet, even under the mounds of clothing. Still, nothing. The angel had cleaned out his own room, as well.

Sighing, the younger brother stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned to exit the room. He was half-way to the door before he noticed the wooden box sitting atop his brother's unused clothes hamper. Sam wouldn't have thought anything of the small chest, and might have left it alone, had a large Devil's Trap not been etched cleanly into the lid.

He struggled to the box and picked it up, examining it carefully. It was certainly big enough to hold a knife, or even an old fashioned gun. Taking a quick look around the room, Sam popped the latch up and opened the box. He gasped at what he found.

It was the Colt, sitting all snug and cozy, safe and sound, and shocking to see after so many years. He hadn't even known that Dean had kept it, could barely even remember that long-ago trip to the more mountainous region of Colorado to find the gun. But here it was, solid and real and deadly, the only thing Dean had neglected in his sweep of the house.

Or had he?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3, ready to go! Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews. I promise I'll try to keep updating regularly, but with speech nad finals, it'll be hard...

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The rope was all set, the chair under it ready to be kicked out, and Angelina Border couldn't have been happier about it. She stood on the old plastic folding chair with the noose wrapped around her neck, and prepared for the end.

She took two deep breaths to steady herself before kicking out at the chair. There was a brief moment of time where she felt as if she were floating before the rope tightened, cutting off all oxygen to her brain. Her world, hopeless and tormented for so long now, finally went black just as Dean Winchester burst through the door that led to the basement she'd decided to end her life in.

"Crap," he sighed, running a hand over his face and slowly lowering the dead girl to the floor. He stood over the body, taking in the sight. Her short brown hair fanned out around her as she lay there, her bright blue eyes staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. He crossed her small hands over her chest and carefully closed her eyes before pulling out his cell to call 911 and report the suicide.

His back was only turned for a second, just enough time to get the first digit punched in, but it was long enough for the corpse to rise into a sitting position, open its eyes, and start gasping for breath.

Dean started and turned, shoving his phone back into his pocket. The girl was pulling the rope from its place around her neck, coughing and gasping and shooting him a look of pure anger. "What the _hell_ did you do _that_ for?" she demanded as the color returned to her pale face.

"I, uh," Dean stammered, "thought…"

"You thought wrong. Now I've gotta do this all over again," she muttered, grabbing the rope and the chair and starting to set the whole thing up for the second time, "lend a hand?"

"I'm sorry," Dean said, watching her closely as she struggled to hang the rope from the rafters again, "I think I'm missing something."

The girl turned, obviously annoyed. "I'm trying to kill myself," she clarified, "got it?"

"Well, yeah, I figured that out, but-"

"_Why _am I trying to kill myself?"

"That's what I'm stuck on."

She sighed, jumping down from the chair and appraising the angel. "I want to die. That's all there is to it. I'm tired of this. Tired of the responsibility, and the guilt, and that annoying little voice." Dean just stared at her. "Sorry," she grinned, "where are my manners? I'm Angelina, and I think I owe you an explanation."

"That would be nice, Angie, yeah."

Her smile widened. "I want to kill myself," she explained sadly, eyeing his wings, "because I'm just like you. Or, at least, I _was_."

o0o0o0o

He sat on the bed, eyes roaming over the cool steel of the gun in his hands, his mind going into overdrive for the first time in years. It was all starting to make sense, all of the pieces were falling into place.

He'd had a plan, of course. He'd realized his mistake just a bit too late to take it back, and so Dean had gone looking for the Colt. Maybe at first it had just been to get it out of the hands of some greater evil, but that had all changed with time.

Immortality, the brothers had found out, always comes with a price. In most stories told to teach a lesson, that price is the lack of eternal youth, so the immortal is forced to whither away into nothingness without the freedom of death looming ever closer.

Dean's situation was markedly different, and they'd found that out fairly quickly. He'd stopped aging. He was stuck at 27 for the rest of eternity, which wouldn't have been such a problem, had the same thing happened to Sam.

But it hadn't, and it hadn't taken Dean too long to figure out that it wouldn't. So he'd gone after the Colt, the gun that could kill anything, and planned on turning it on himself in the end. It was a perfect plan, one capable of setting both brothers free.

"He couldn't do it," Sam muttered to himself as he stared at the gun, "he couldn't let me go."

And, of course, Sam realized, he should have known that. Should have realized that Dean would fight tooth and nail to keep him around. He'd done the same thing, on more than one occasion. Back in Michigan with Max, in Nebraska and Colorado with the demon. How had he ever expected Dean to make that sacrifice?

Of course, there was always the slight possibility that the angel had just forgotten about the gun. In that case, little brother would just have to remind him, confront him about it when he got home that night. Maybe he could even force the truth out of him.

Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

Sighing heavily, Sam placed the weapon carefully back into the box and exited his brother's room, heading back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

o0o0o0o

Dean reached out a tentative hand and drew it carefully down one of the two long scars that marked the girl's otherwise perfect back. "I heard somewhere that cutting them off would make me mortal," she explained sadly, pulling her shirt back down as he drew his hand away.

"Yeah, I heard that somewhere, too," Dean muttered, shuddering at the memory of the look on Sammy's face as the demon told them, "but I'm guessing it doesn't work."

"Not for me, anyway."

"So," he ventured, "why'd you do it? What happened?"

Angelina sighed, taking a seat in the chair she'd set up under the noose while Dean shoved his hands in his pockets. "I guess it started when my parents left. They were both sent to a hospital somewhere in Illinois. My sister and I were left alone, and our folks never came back. We got letters from them once in a while, but mostly they were illegible.

"I was the oldest, about seven years older than Christi, and she was put in my care. Well, technically we were living with our aunt and uncle, but they didn't care much about either of us."

"Sounds tough."

"It got tougher. One day Christi ran away. No one looked for her. She'd been acting kind of weird for a couple of weeks by that point in time, and I was starting to worry about her. I prayed every night that I would be able to find her and bring her home safe and sound, and then…"

"You got what you wanted."

"I was… I dunno. Surprised, to say the least. And then that voice, like some weird whisper in the back of my head… I found Christi right where it told me I would, but she was so different. She was babbling, and she didn't even recognize me. She was living out on the streets, so I took her to a motel, and that night while she was asleep, I just looked her over, and I went to move her hair off her forehead, and…"

"Your hands started glowing," Dean nodded, "and when she woke up the next day, she was sane, right?"

"Yeah. I'd fixed her, but I didn't lose the wings. I told her all about what had happened, and she got kind of scared. Eventually, though, she warmed up to the idea of me being an angel, and we lived happily ever after for a while."

"For a while?"

Angie nodded. "When I realized she was getting older and I wasn't, I kind of started to freak out, you know? She was all I had, and I couldn't imagine life without her. And some weird stuff was starting to go on with her, too, but I didn't think much of it.

"I got called away on, um, _business_, and when I got back… I mean, I was only gone for a couple of weeks, I didn't think…"

"What happened?"

"They said she was schizophrenic. That she couldn't be cured. There was something else wrong with her, though, something medical. Man, I don't even remember what it was now, it's been so long.

"Long story short, they kept her locked up, and they never let me in to see her. I couldn't help her, and she wound up dying all alone, in some crazy universe she'd invented for herself. I could have saved her, but they wouldn't let me. She was 58. That was over 30 years ago, and I've been living with it ever since."

"When did you-?"

Angie smiled sadly. "A couple of years ago. I tried jumping off a bridge, slitting my wrists-"

"Popular choices," Dean muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"I think I've tried everything, but I keep coming back. I can't die, no matter how bad I want to, and it's killing me inside." She grinned, standing up, "but you don't need to hear about this. I'm just bringing you down. You're probably happy as a heavenly clam, huh?"

"You'd be surprised. My, uh, my brother tried to kill himself today. Said he wanted me to let him go."

"That's terrible," the girl commented.

"Yeah. I'm just hoping I can get through to him, you know. Just tell him why I can't let go now."

"You'd better hurry," she sighed, "he might not like having to wait."

Dean nodded. "Probably right. Look, here's my address," he handed her a slip of paper, "just drop by if you want to talk or something."

"Thanks," she smiled, taking the card and looking it over.

"And if some cranky old guy answers the door," Dean added on his way out, "it's just my brother. He's fairly harmless, but if he comes to the door wielding an axe, just stand still. His sight's kinda bad, and he can't see you if you don't move."

"I'll remember that, thanks." She closed the door behind him and watched him fly back towards his house. A sly smile worked its way across Angelina's face as she walked back through the house, her eyes darkening until they turned a deep, pitiless black.


	4. Chapter 4

First day of finals: officially over. So, now I've got some time to put up another chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

Sam pounced the second his brother had walked through the door. "The Colt," he said quickly, opening up the discussion.

"Word association," Dean nodded. "Ok, I'll bite. Pony."

"The _Colt_."

"Uh… Dodge."

"The _GUN!_"

"Um… ammo?"

"Dean," Sammy growled, throwing up his arms in frustration, "I swear, sometimes I just wanna shoot you!"

"Wouldn't do much good in the long run."

"It would vent my anger."

"Do we have to sing?"

"What?" Sam asked. Had his mind not been swimming in a mixture of anger and curiosity, he might have caught the joke.

"You know," Dean explained patiently (he'd gotten better at being patient as Sam had aged), "we'll sing a song to deal with your anger issues, like in that movie with Adam Sandler."

"You saw 'Anger Management?'"

"Hell yeah. My man Jack was in it."

Sam sighed and leaned up against a wall, slowly sliding down into a sitting position and trying to ignore the concerned look Dean shot him as his joints popped audibly. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Dean joined him on the floor. "I ain't the only one."

"Ain't isn't a word."

"Since when did you become such a grammar freak?"

Sam shook his head. "I found the Colt today."

"Dude, I told you already. The first word that pops into my head is 'pony.' Now, you gonna tell me what's with the psych evaluation?"

"It isn't a psych evaluation, Dean," Sam muttered through gritted teeth as he wrung his hands together in his lap, "I'm simply stating a fact. I found the gun today." Dean opened his mouth. "And I swear, if you say ammo-"

"I was gonna say _ammunition_, but if you have a problem…"

"Why'd you keep it?"

Dean shrugged, the mood suddenly serious. He knew when he'd pushed his brother too far, could feel it in his bones, and realized that this was one of those times. "I told you," he said softly, "I just wanted it so nothing else could have it."

"You weren't going to use it to kill yourself?"

"Why would I do that?" He couldn't meet Sam's eyes. He already knew that the younger man knew. He'd figured it out. _Congrats, Sammy. It only took you 55 years._

"You mean you weren't planning on turning it on yourself after I died?"

Dean sighed. "Look, it's late. Isn't there some History Channel documentary you could watch while the meds take effect?"

"You're not avoiding this. I won't let you. Dean, why'd you keep the Colt?"

He was planning on lying, figuring that Sam was probably so drained from everything that had happened that day that he wouldn't notice, but one look at his brother's alert puppy-dog stare told him that wasn't an option. "At first," the angel admitted slowly, "I just wanted it because it was up for grabs. Thought it needed a good home, you know?"

"But things changed?"

"Yeah. I finally figured it out in New York, a couple of weeks before Ash found it for us. I can't die. I didn't know if I was gonna age or not. And then I just got kind of scared, I guess. It didn't seem fair. But the gun can kill anything, and I thought maybe it could kill me, too."

"Then why do you keep bringing me back?"

"I told you already. It's hard to just sit by and watch it happen when you can do something. I had every intention of letting you go, but some of the things that were trying to take you… no one should die like that. Not slow."

Sam nodded. "But today?"

"The more I think about it, the harder it gets, man. I dunno. It's like it's been ingrained in my mind or something. Dad gave me a job; he told me to protect you. I can't just let you die. It goes against my nature, or something. It feels wrong."

"You can't keep me alive forever, Dean."

The angel nodded sadly. "Yeah, I know. Some day… just not now, all right? Just hang on for a little bit, ok?"

"You have no idea-"

"I miss 'em, too, Sam. Just give me a little more time, all right?"

Sam sighed, hanging his head. "Fine. But nothing more than a month, all right? I'm getting antsy here, dude."

Dean turned to look at him, a smile spreading across his eternally young face. "Do I _really_ need to hear about all of your little problems, Gramps?" Sam shoved him in the shoulder. "Ooh, that hurt," the angel rolled his eyes, "might just have to head into the ER for that one."

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times," Sam grinned, "Izzie Stevens is _not_ a real doctor. And that show was _so_ overrated!"

o0o0o0o

"I'll get it," Sam called as he headed toward the door. Whoever was outside the tiny house was obviously very impatient, because the knocking sound didn't stop. "Coming, I'm coming!"

He yanked the door open to find a young woman with short brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. "Hi!" she said, smiling brightly.

"Um, hey," Sam grinned before turning and calling out to his brother. "Dean, it's for you." He turned back to the door. "I assume."

The girl nodded. "Yeah. I'm Angelina."

"Sam. Dean's my-"

"Brother." She grinned at the look of shock on the older man's face. "Um, he told me last night. It's cool. I totally understand. Can I come in?"

"Sure, yeah." Sam stepped aside and let the pretty little thing enter as Dean emerged from the kitchen, half a granola bar shoved into his mouth. "Is this yours?"

Dean eyed the girl before smiling and almost choking on his snack as he attempted to talk. "'S fine."

"Excuse me?"

Dean finally got the chunk of granola swallowed. "I said she's mine, yeah. Dude, 79 years with me and you're _still_ not fluent in Deanish? I'm disappointed."

Sammy just shook his head. "Why in the world would I pay that much attention to how you talk?"

"Maybe my velvety smooth voice?"

The old man rolled his eyes and headed back into the living room, where he'd been watching an awesome History Channel documentary on World War 3. "Whatever, Dean. Have fun with your little friend, and try not to get too frisky on the kitchen table. Some of us still like to eat there."

Dean just answered with an eye roll of his own before flashing a winning smile at Angelina. "Told you he gets cranky," he shrugged, "so, what brings you by?"

"I'm not sure, really," the girl answered, following him through the house and into the kitchen, "I guess it's just… I've never really met anyone else like me before."

"Ditto. I always just thought I was the only one."

"Feels like your life's one big cosmic joke, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes," he nodded, "but others…" He glanced toward the living room.

"You've been keeping him alive, haven't you?" she asked, following his gaze.

"Yeah. He's starting to get sick of it. I don't know what to do anymore. I can't just let him… you know? It just doesn't feel right."

"I know how you feel," Angie said sadly, gently touching his arm.

"We made a deal last night," Dean said quietly, "he's gonna give me a month to work this whole thing out with myself. Four weeks. Even if I'm not ready, I have to let him go. I'm not sure if I can do that."

"Of course you can," the girl assured, moving closer and staring up at him with understanding eyes, "I know it."

The angel pulled away. "Not so sure, Angie. I kind of have issues with being alone."

"Don't worry about that," she smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist, "I'm not going anywhere."

o0o0o0o

Sam's smile reached ear-to-ear. It was just what he'd been hoping for, a chance to leave this world behind without any guilt about leaving his brother alone. Dean had finally found someone like him, someone good and pure, someone who couldn't die.

Grabbing the remote, Sammy flipped the TV off and settled back into his chair for a short nap as the sound of the two people talking in the next room continued. He closed his eyes as his head began to ache dully, an odd sensation after years without a migraine.

o0o0o0o

Dean's hands closed around her throat and began to glow as Angelina writhed in his grip. Panic was written across her rapidly paling face as she fought against her attacker. Dean wasn't about to give in, though, and tightened his hold on the other immortal.

"You bitch," he hissed, "you killed him. You stole it and _you killed him_."

Angie opened her mouth to speak, but only hoarse choking sounds came out as her lips began to go noticeably blue and her eyes rolled back into her head.

Dean, though, refused to let go. He was smarter than that.

o0o0o0o

Sam jumped awake, his head throbbing, mind swimming with the gravity of what he'd just seen. "What the hell?" he muttered as he scrubbed a shaking hand over his face.

He froze, suddenly unaware of the pain in his head or the happy voices in the other room. The whole of his focus went to one small spot on his face, just below his left eye. It was numb. He couldn't feel anything as he poked at it, and panic slowly began to rise in his chest.

"What the hell?" he wondered again as he let his hand slide into his lap and began to mull over the first vision he'd had in 55 years.


	5. Chapter 5

Short chapter, but the next one will be longer, I promise!

* * *

It hadn't taken Sam long to dismiss and forget the odd dream. Let's face it, his memory wasn't exactly what it used to be. He did, however, feel increasingly uneasy around Angelina as the weeks passed by.

He hadn't mentioned that to Dean, though, hadn't even told him about the dream. The elder finally had a reason to let Sam die, and, besides, visions could be unreliable.

Still, Sam kept his distance from Angie.

It had been three weeks since that weird, midday dream, and the numb place on the old man's face had finally faded away to nothing more than a tiny pinprick that he had trouble even finding. Better yet, he hadn't had another vision since that day.

Things were definitely looking up for Sam, who only had to wait a week for freedom, as he dug through the fridge for something to eat during the movie he and his brother had rented.

"Hey," Dean called, "hurry it up, Gramps, or I'll hit play without you!"

Sam grinned, shaking his head. "Whose idea was it to eat subs while watching 'Ten Inch Hero,' again?" he called back, pulling the necessary ingredients out of the fridge and placing them on the countertop as his head began to ache. "What do you want on it?"

"Ham, pickles, bacon-"

"Dean, I'm not making bacon!"

"Fine! Just slap a bunch of olives on it."

"We only have green olives."

"That's all right."

Sammy wrinkled his nose, but went back to the refrigerator just the same. He pulled open the door and searched for the jar as the headache got steadily worse.

Finally, he found the olives and pulled them out, heading for the counter to start making lunch. He didn't get far before the dull pain in his head became a blinding throb and the room around him flashed with viciously bright lights.

o0o0o0o0o

The cemetery was still and silent, the perfect place for a body to find peace. Dean crossed the grounds from the gate, heading to one stone in particular. He knelt down, running his fingers softly over his brother's name.

"I finally found it," he whispered meekly, "I found it, Sammy, and it paid. I got it back for you, and for Angie, for everybody it's killed since that day. It took a century, but I did it." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar antique gun. "I got the gun back, too. Not that it does me any good now, but I got it back, man."

He began digging a hole, shallow but long, near the headstone. "I should have locked it up," Dean apologized, "I should have watched her more closely. Man, I should have known. What good are these wings if they can't help me pick out the evil people who can't die from the good ones, huh?"

He dropped the gun into the hole, where it landed with a hollow thunk, and began covering it up as the whole scene shifted and spun, flashing and jerking until the angel had landed out behind a grimy motel and pulled his jacket back over his wings.

Dean walked around to his room, and entered it slowly, eyeing the two queen sized beds for a moment before scanning the room for something else. He found his duffel bag, full of weapons as always, sitting on a chair. He began to dig through it, obviously searching for something.

He straightened suddenly, clutching his prize tightly to his chest before walking to one of the beds. It was the bed closest to the door, his appointed spot, something that wasn't going to change even 100 years after his brother's death.

Slowly, Dean raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, sending blood and tissue flying to the walls. His body hit the bed, weapon falling from his dead fingers, as gore slowly dripped down the gaudy wallpaper.

The room fell silent, but it didn't stay that way for long. No ordinary weapon could kill the tired, broken man that now lay on the bed, sobbing loudly at the way his life had turned out.

o0o0o0o0o

The first thing Sam was aware of was his brother's voice. He opened his eyes slowly to find Dean hovering over him, a look of concern written plainly across his face as he pulled his hands, still glowing, from his littler brother's head.

"What happened?" Sam asked, sitting up as his brother backed away to give him room to breathe. They were both sitting on the kitchen floor, and there was some sort of smelly liquid on the tiles.

"You, uh, dropped my olives," Dean said softly, "and I think you had a stroke."

"What?"

"I heard the crash," the elder explained, "and when I came in, you were lying on the floor. Your eyes were open, but you weren't responsive. The whole left side of your face looked kind of droopy and your eyes were all bloodshot. Your nose was bleeding."

Sam reached up and absently wiped the blood from his face. "I didn't have a stroke," he said, "I had a vision."

Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A _what_? Are you sure that's what it was, because it's been a while-"

"I know how long it's been, but there's no mistaking it," the old man defended, "it was a vision."

"Well, what happened?"

Sammy sighed, struggling to his feet and grabbing a mop to clean up the mess. "I think you need to call Angie. We're gonna need all the help we can get."


	6. Chapter 6

Ok, so the final three chapters are really short, and I'm nowhere NEAR done with "On Angel's Wings 4," but I ahve a good feeling that everyone still reading and reviewing will be all right with that. You WILL be all right? Won't you?

* * *

"And these vision of yours are all connected to the same demon?" Angelina asked as the three sat around the Winchesters' kitchen table and talked.

"They were," Dean nodded, "until I killed the sucker. He hasn't had one since. Until today."

"That's not exactly true," Sam muttered, hanging his head and twiddling his thumbs, "about three weeks ago I had a dream. I just kind of dismissed it at first, but now I'm starting to wonder-"

"What happened?"

"You were trying to strangle Angie," Sam answered, turning to his brother, "you were talking crazy, man. Saying that she killed someone and stole something."

"That doesn't make sense," Angie said, "I could never kill anyone. I can't even imagine it. You've got to be mistaken."

"Probably just a bad dream," Dean agreed, "but the one today wasn't. What did you see?"

Sam sighed. "You were in a graveyard," he began slowly, "standing by my grave. You were talking about finding the Colt after 100 years of searching. You said it was useless. You starting talking about something killing me and Angie, and you said you'd killed it. Then, you went to a motel and shot yourself in the head, but you didn't die."

"And they all lived happily ever after," Dean groaned, "man, I'd forgotten how morbid these things can be."

Angelina shook her head. "That couldn't have been real. You said something had killed me, and, believe me, nothing can."

"The Colt can," Sam said, "it can kill anything. Dean was saving the last bullet for himself, but I'm guessing that isn't going to work out."

"A gun that can kill anything," Angie scoffed, "right. And I'm a demon."

"It's true. It was made in 1835 for a hunter, and only thirteen bullets were made. There's one left now, but that should be all Dean needs to really die."

"I still don't believe you."

The brothers exchanged a glance. "Fine," Dean sighed, "come on." He led the other angel back into his bedroom and over to the box, which still sat on the clothes hamper. He opened it up carefully and showed her.

"It's a gun," Angie shrugged, "big whoop."

"This gun's killed a number of big bads in its time," the hunter explained, "don't take it lightly. It could probably kill you, too." He set the Colt back in the box and closed the lid, latching it carefully.

The girl still didn't seem impressed, though her eyes lingered on the Devil's Trap that adorned the lid of the chest. "So, Sammy thinks something's out to get him?" she asked, "something that can kill me?"

Dean nodded, "Looks that way. And whatever it is, it uses up the last bullet. Probably on you."

"Why don't we just take the gun, hunt it down, and shoot the stupid thing, then?"

"Like Sam said, I'm saving that bullet."

Angie nodded sadly. "I see. So, what, you're just gonna make me stay here all by my lonesome? You're gonna go on to something better and I'm going to spend the rest of eternity like this?"

The hunter sighed. "Well, when you say it like that, it makes me seem selfish."

"I didn't ask for this, Dean. I don't want to stay like this."

"That makes two of us."

"You know, you _could_ be the bigger person here. You could just give me the gun and-"

"Do you know how long it took me to get that thing?" he growled, "how hard it was to find? I froze to death looking for it, and I'm still not even sure it'll work on me. I guess I'll find out at the end of the week."

"You selfish bastard."

"I think it's time for you to leave."

"Ditto," Angelina hissed, turning on her heel and storming form the cluttered room. The front door slammed as she left.

"What was that?" Sam asked, poking his head into the room.

"We had a fight," Dean muttered dismissively, "nothing to worry about."

Sam nodded and retreated into the living room, leaving his brother alone to think. It _was_ something to worry about. The girl had opened Dean's eyes, pointed out an obvious fact that he had missed before. She was more deserving. She hadn't known what she had been getting herself into, and he had. Hell, he had _asked_ for it.

He walked back to the hamper and took the gun from its protective case. He turned it over in his hands. His one shot at freedom, at a blissful eternity with his family, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. She had been right. He _was_ being selfish. She deserved the gun.

Dean was actually considering going after Angelina when he heard his brother call his name. He set the gun down on his bed, glancing once at the box it usually sat in and figuring that five minutes out of the case couldn't hurt.

"What?" he asked, meeting his brother in the kitchen.

"I just had a thought," Sam began, "what if the demon's back?"

"That's impossible. I killed it."

"I know, but all of my visions were connected to the damn thing before, and now… I mean, 55 years is a long time, man. It's possible."

Dean shook his head. "No. It's not. It's dead, and it's never coming back. And we're not even entirely sure this is a vision."

"I guess, but-" Sam's argument was cut off by the sound of shattering glass in Dean's bedroom, and both brothers ran to investigate.

Sammy stopped in the doorway, gazing across all of the clutter at the single broken window that the intruder had entered through. Apparently, the criminal had exited the same way. "Whatever it is, it's gone," Sam shrugged.

Dean had run to the bed, paying absolutely no attention to the window or his brother, and had started to sift through the sheets. "No," he mumbled, searching the floor, "no, it can't be. She couldn't have."

"What?" Sam asked, walking up to his brother.

Dean turned to face him, fear flitting across his features. "The Colt's gone."


	7. Chapter 7

Another short chapter, but, honestly, I think it's enjoyable.

Thanks again to everyone who's been bothering to review. It really does mean a lot to me that people are actually interested in the story!

* * *

Nimble fingers clicked across the keyboard as Sam once again marveled at his own dexterity. Maybe Dean was good for something after all. Without the angel's healing abilities, Sam's body would have succumbed to arthritis years ago, and he wouldn't have been able to run a valid search.

Dean had gone out to try and find Angelina, whom he believed to be the culprit, telling Sam to stay at home and wait in case she returned. Figuring that was a long-shot, Sammy sat at the computer and tried to make everything right.

There had to be some other legend or lore on how to kill immortals, some way to ease his brother's suffering just a little. The only problem was where to begin.

Sam was so engrossed in the results of his first search and thoughts of his emotionally strained brother spending eternity alone that he didn't hear the front door, which Dean had left unlocked, open. Soft footfalls barely even registered. In fact, the only thing that Sam heard clearly was the cock of the gun.

He spun in the chair to find Angie staring at him with cold black eyes. "Hey there, Psychic Boy," she hissed, pointing the gun at his heart.

"You're-"

"Hardly Heavenly," she replied with a smirk as her finger clutched the trigger and the gun went off. The bullet dug deep into Sam's chest, burning as it neared his heart. He stumbled and fell out of the chair, landing on the hardwood floor and watching helplessly as the demon walked out of the room, leaving him alone to die.

"God," he whispered, "please don't let him be alone." The room faded to black around him as Sam's shoulder blades began to itch.

o0o0o0o

Dean stood in the middle of the field, looking out around him. She hadn't been at her house, and couldn't have gotten too far. The only question remaining was where to search next.

The angel spun quickly as the hollow sound of something heavy being dropped onto the grass met his ears. Angelina was standing behind him, Colt lying at her feet, blue eyes shining, a wicked grin plastered across her face.

"Why?" Dean asked her, taking a step forward.

"He would have ruined everything," she said calmly, "and daddy can't have that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I stole the gun," Angie explained, "and I ran, but I didn't go far. I stayed in the neighborhood, and once I was sure you were gone, I took the Colt and I shot your brother through the heart with it."

The angel's eyes went wide with disbelief. "What?" he asked incredulously, "no, you couldn't have."

"Try to call him," she challenged, "if he's waiting for you to get back about the gun, he'll answer. If he's dead, he won't."

Never taking his eyes from the girl, the hunter pulled out his cell and dialed the house. It rang three times before jumping to the machine. He tried Sam's cell, but got the same response. "He's busy," Dean muttered, "that's all."

"He's dead," Angelina hissed, kicking the Colt across the ground to him, "see for yourself."

Dean grabbed the gun and inspected it. The final bullet was missing. "What did you do with it?" he asked harshly, "where's the last bullet?"

She smirked. "Deep in your brother's heart, I think. I'm not sure, though. Always was a terrible aim."

"You didn't," the angel growled, reality finally starting to sink in, "you couldn't."

"I put him out of his misery," she announced, "and pleased my father. I did the right thing."

The angel's only response to that was to lunge toward her, flapping his wings for a little extra speed, his arms outstretched.

Dean's hands closed around her throat and began to glow as Angelina writhed in his grip. Panic was written across her rapidly paling face as she fought against her attacker. Dean wasn't about to give in, though, and tightened his hold on the other immortal.

"You bitch," he hissed, "you killed him. You stole it and _you killed him_."

Angie opened her mouth to speak, but only hoarse choking sounds came out as her lips began to go noticeably blue and her eyes rolled back into her head.

Dean, though, refused to let go. He was smarter than that.

Suddenly, Angie's head snapped back and her mouth opened wide. She screamed, a primal, animal sound that was abruptly cut off by the stream of black vapor that came pouring forth from between her lips.

Dean started and backed away as the demon made its leave, dissipating into the sky and leaving its host's body, broken, beaten, and dead with two raw, boiling handprints on her neck.

"Shit," Dean muttered as the whole situation hit him full-force. She'd been possessed, Sam was dead, and now he was alone. Totally alone.

He staggered away from the useless Colt and Angelina's body, not really sure of where he was going, just knowing that he needed to get away for a while.


	8. Chapter 8

All right. Here it is. The final chapter. Sorry it took so long to update (stupid homework!).

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, and don't forget to remember that I'm currently in the process of writing a fouth "On Angel's Wings," which I hope to finish eventually :)

Thanks again for all the support!!

* * *

The lake stretched out before him, pristine, shining, with a few small waves rippling around here and there. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, wings drooping behind him. There was no release for him. He was trapped.

He could never get attached. Everyone would leave him in the end, everyone would die, and there was nothing Dean could do to save them.

He'd tried to save Sam, but in the end, he couldn't. It was all his own stupid fault. He'd let Angie into the house, he hadn't known she was possessed. He'd left the gun out, had left Sam alone and completely unprotected. Nothing could make that right.

His phone started ringing and he answered it, for lack of anything better to do. The caller id said it was Sam, but Dean knew better. Sam was dead. It was probably whoever had been called after the shot had been fired. Paramedics who had found the body and were calling the first number on speed dial.

"Mr. Winchester?" It sounded almost like Sam, only a younger Sam, one who hadn't had the lung problems time had brought. The voice was a little too deep, though, to really be the psychic.

And Sam was dead, so it couldn't be him.

"Yeah."

"There's been an accident. Your grandfather, Samuel, was shot in his house today. I'm sorry."

Dean just nodded. "Same here," he muttered sadly, flipping the phone shut and sighing loudly as small waves rolled onto the sandy beach of the lake.

"Bad news?" a comforting voice from behind him called.

"My brother," Dean answered, not even caring that his wings were out in public, not even trying to place that voice, one he could have sworn that he had heard somewhere before, just content to stare out over the water and try not to think.

"What happened?"

"He was shot. It was someone we thought we could trust."

"I see. You miss him?"

"He was all I had," Dean replied with a sad smile, "I just wish I could have saved him. I wish I had been there. If I could just see him one more time, talk to him again…"

His phone started to ring. 'Sam' was calling again. He almost didn't answer it, but something told him to anyway. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Turn around." The voice came from the phone and behind him simultaneously, causing Dean to jump. He turned slowly to find Sam standing there, cell phone in hand, smiling at him.

"What the-" Dean started, but stopped as soon as he realized what he was really seeing. Sam looked younger, somewhere in his twenties, perfectly healthy. "How the hell?"

"You know what they say," Sam smiled, "every time a cell rings, an angel gets his wings." He slipped out of the old, long jacket he'd been wearing, revealing a set of large, ashen grey wings.

"No way," Dean breathed, stumbling to his feet for a better look.

"Way," Sam nodded, flapping them a couple of times and lifting about an inch off the ground, "and they work."

"But Angie-"

"Oh, yeah, Angie. She's possessed."

"I kinda figured that out when she puked up a demon." Dean nodded, "but you… she said you were dead."

"I was, technically. I guess someone up there really likes us. I didn't even realize what I'd asked for 'til I stood up fifty years younger with wings."

"You can't die now?"

"Guess not," Sam shrugged, "now you won't have to be alone, at least."

"What about mom and dad and Jess? I thought-"

"They can wait a little," Sam said, "right now, we have bigger problems."

"That's an understatement," Dean scoffed, laughing nervously and finding himself unable to take his eyes off Sam and his new wings.

"_Demonic_ problems," the younger brother clarified, "in my vision it took you 100 years to find the Colt again, but I picked it up in the field where I found Angelina."

Dean nodded. "If I killed her in your first vision, then she didn't take it. Something else was after it?"

"Probably. But why?"

Dean shrugged, a little surprised to find that the shock of finding that his dead brother had sprouted wings and come back to life had faded almost completely. "Memento? Something to use as a trophy?"

"That's what I thought. But what wants it?"

"Angie said her daddy wanted you dead. You know what that means?"

"Ol' Yellow-Eyes is back?"

Dean shook his head. "No. That one didn't want to kill you, it wanted to use you. This is something different."

"You know what we have to do, right?"

"Hunt it down and kill the son of a bitch, what else?"

Sammy nodded. "Yep. Man, our afterlives are weird."

Dean laughed. "Dude, speak for yourself. I never actually died in the first place."

"All right. _My_ afterlife is weird. Your life's just twisted."

"Better."

"Hey, Dean?" Sam began, smiling as he noticed his brother gear up for a chick-flick moment.

"What?"

"Race you to the house!" He took off, wings stirring up dust, leaving Dean just a little amazed at how fast he'd gotten the hang of the whole flying thing.

"You're on, little brother," he whispered, taking off after Sam and into the sunset.

* * *

THE END

So, any final opinions?


End file.
